Such Is Life

a patch on this mare; an’ you mightn’t think it to look at her jist now. Fact is, boss, she wants a week or a fortnit spell. Couldn’t we work up some sort o’ swap for that ole black moke o’ yours, with the big head? If I got a trifle o’ cash to boot, I wouldn’t mind slingin’ in this saddle, an’ takin’ yours. Now, boss, don’t be a ( adj.) fool.”
“To tell you the truth,” I replied, “that black horse has carried a pack so long that he’s about cooked for saddle. But he does me right enough.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do!” exclaimed Rufus impulsively. “Look here! At a word! I’ll go you an even swap for that little weed of a grey mare! At a word, mind! I’m a reckless sort o’ (person) when I take the notion! but without a word of exaggeration, I wouldn’t do it on’y for being fixed the way I am. This here mare’s got a fortune in her for a man like you.”
“Now howl’ yer tongue!” interposed M’Nab, who, with the half-caste⁠—a lithe, active lad of eighteen⁠—had joined us. “Is it swappin’ ye want wi’ decent men? Sure thon poor craytur iv a baste hesn’t got the sthrenth fur till kerry it own hide, let alone a great gommeril on it back. An’ thon’s furnent ye! Hello, Tamson! begog A didn’t know ye at wanst.”
“Good day,  Mr. M’Nab. Alterations since I delivered you that wire at Poondoo. Been in the wars?” For M’Nab was leaning forward and sideways in his saddle, evidently in pain.
“Yis,” replied the contractor frankly. “There was some Irish rascals at the pub thonder, where we stapped las’ night; an’ wan word brung on another, an’ at long an’ at last we fell to, so we did; on’ A’m dam but they got the betther o’ me, being three agin wan. A b’lee some o’ me ribs is bruk.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Thompson, straining a point for courtesy.
“Are you an Orangeman too, sonny?” I asked the half-caste aside; for the young fellow had a bunged eye, and a flake of skin off his cheekbone.
“No, by Cripes!” responded my countryman emphatically. “Not me. That cove’s a ( adj.) liar. He don’t give a dam, s’posin’ a feller’s soul gits bashed out. Best sight I seen for many a day was seein’ him gittin’ kicked. If the mean beggar’d on’y square up with me, I’d let summedy else do his⁠—”
“Thon’s a brave wee shilty, sur-thon grey wan o’ yours,” broke in the contractor, who had been conversing with Thompson, whilst looking enviously at Fancy, hitched behind the wagon. “Boys o’ dear,” he added reflectively, “she’s jist sich another as may wee Dolly; an’ A’ve been luckin’ fur a match fur Dolly this menny’s the day. How oul’ is she, sur?”
“Six, this spring.”
“Ay⁠—that! Ye wudn’t be fur partin’ we her, sur? A’m mortial covetious fur till git thon baste. Houl’ an”⁠—he pondered a moment, glancing first at the honest-looking hack he was riding, then at the magnificent animal which carried the half-caste. “Houl’ an. Gimme a thrifle fur luck, an’ take ether wan o’ them two. A’ll thrust ye till do the leck fur me some time afther.”
He had been travelling with the redheaded fellow, and the fascination of swapping was upon him, poorly backed by his suicidal candour. The utter simplicity of his bracketing his own two horses⁠—worth, respectively, to all appearance, £8 and £30⁠—and the frank confession of his desire to have my mare at any price, made me feel honestly compunctious.
“Now thon’s a brave loose lump iv a baste,” he continued, following my eye as I glanced over the half-caste’s splendid mount. “Aisy till ketch, an’ as quite as ye plaze.”
“How old is he,  Mr. M’Nab?”
“He must be purty oul’, he’s so quite and thractable. Ye kin luck at his mouth. A don’t ondherstand the marks myself.”
I opened the horse’s mouth. He was just five. I regret to record that I shook my head gravely, and observed:
“You’ve had him a long time,  Mr. M’Nab?”
“Divil a long. A got him in a swap, as it might be this time yistherday. There’s the resate. An’ here’s the resate the man got when he bought him out o’ Hillston poun’. Ye can’t go beyant a poun’ resate.”
“Why do you want to get rid of the horse,  Mr. M’Nab?”
“Begog, A don’t want till git red iv the baste, sich as he is,” replied M’Nab resentfully. “But A want thon wee shilty, an’ A evened a swap till ye, fur it’s a prodistaner thing nor lavin’ a man on his feet, so it is.”
“See anything wrong with the horse, Steve?” I asked in an undertone.
“Perfect to the eye,” murmured Thompson. “Try him a mile, full tilt.”
I made the proposal to M’Nab, and he eagerly agreed. At my suggestion, the half-caste unhitched and tried Fancy, while I mounted the black horse, and turned him across the plain. I tried him at all paces; but never before had I met with anything to equal that elastic step and long, easy, powerful stride. To ride that horse was to feel free, exultant, invincible. His gallop was like “Marching Through Georgia,” vigorously rendered by a good brass band. All that has been written of man’s noblest friend⁠—from the dim, uncertain time when some unknown hand, in a leisure moment, dashed off the Thirty-ninth chapter of the Book of Job, to the yesterday when Long Gordon translated into ringing verse the rhythmic clatter of the hoof-beats he loved so well⁠—all might find fulfilment in this unvalued beast, now providentially owned by the softest of foreigners.
“Well?” interrogated M’Nab, as I rejoined him.
“Don’t you think he’s a bit chest-foundered?” I asked in reply.
“Divil a wan o’ me knows. Mebbe he is, begog. Sure A hedn’t him long enough fur till fine out.”
“And how much boot are you going to give me?” I asked, with a feeling of shame which did honour to my heart.
“Och, now, lave this! Boot! is it? Sure